by Mike Stewart
“You?” He chuckled. “Beats me. That was somebody else's idea. But complicated? Nothin' complicated about it. She-it. All we did was junk up some computers with porno, break into your cheap-ass crib a couple times, and rent that house out in the boondocks. Nothin' to it.”
More movement. A dark form, a man, moved silently toward Click's back. Sweat trickled along Scott's spine. He needed to talk—to calm his nerves, to buy time, to make some noise to cover the approach of the dark man pausing now in the shadow of an old workstation.
“One more thing.”
Click shook his head. His eyes narrowed. “Fuck you. You're standin' there dead. It's over.”
“If I'm dead, what difference does it make? I just want to know who hired you. Who set me up?”
The hacker shook his head and raised the gun.
“Had to be someone at the hospital. Had to be. Didn't it? You can tell me that much.”
“For a Harvard boy, you ain't all that smart, are you?” Click sighed. “Yeah. It was somebody at the hospital. I won't give a name. Not even to a dead man. I don't do that.” He raised the barrel. “Good-bye, asshole.”
A black shape sprang from the floor behind Click. Scott dove hard to his right just as the blast from the automatic shattered the cool air inside the old factory. Scott rolled and sprang back onto his feet, sprinting to a metal workstation where he hunkered down.
Someone cussed.
Scott peeked out to see the wax-faced stranger standing over Click. The watcher held the gun. Click was doing the cussing.
Scott rose to his feet. The watcher, without taking his eyes from Click, extended a hand in Scott's direction and crooked his fingers. As Scott approached the pair, the young man's coal-black eyes burned only in Click's direction.
“Who the hell are you?” Click was speaking to the watcher. “Burglar? Rapist?” He pointed over at Cindy Travers, who had collapsed onto the floor. “You want the girl?”
Fearing Cindy had been hit by the wild gunshot, Scott knelt down beside her. The round had missed. She was crying—her thin shoulders trembling, then heaving with sobs. Scott stroked her hair, then stood.
Click got to one knee. He was studying the watcher. “You're one ugly bastard, aren't you? Look like you had a job as a taste tester in an acid factory.” He laughed. “Don't imagine you got women lined up around the block. I think you better get you some of that before she kicks. She's messed up, but you don't fuck the face. Right?”
The watcher's scarred features showed no expression. Not anger or fear, not even interest. His eyes locked into Click's. “I don't want her.” His voice came out like a rusty whisper—as hard and sparse and damaged as his face.
Click hesitated, taken aback by the voice. “What do you want?” He motioned at Scott. “You with him?”
The watcher shrugged, then turned to Scott. “That girl your friend?”
Scott glanced back at the broken soul on the floor. He thought about Budzik's smug abuse, about taking Cindy to the shelter, and about what Click had done to her now. He nodded. “Yeah.”
The halting whisper came again. “You want this one?” He motioned at Click with the barrel of the handgun.
Scott needed Click. He needed him for information. He needed him to clear his name. Right now, he needed to kick his ass. “I want him.”
The watcher stepped backward. He held Click's handgun up in front of his face as if he'd never seen it before, his black eyes glimmering beside the stainless steel barrel.
Scott feared what the watcher might do. “I don't want him dead.”
The watcher shrugged. He made a quick step toward Scott, then tossed the automatic through the air. As Scott reached out to catch the gun, he caught a blur of movement. Click was moving. Scott caught the pistol by its black rubber grip and dropped to the floor as a gunshot from a second gun exploded in his ears. Two more blasts sounded.
Click had a short black revolver, and he was unloading in the direction where the watcher had been standing. Scott's eyes went to the target, but the wax-faced stranger had disappeared. His eyes moved back to Click. Scott's hands fumbled with the stainless automatic. There was no time to aim. He pointed and fired. And fired again and again. Click was running.
Scott heard himself scream “Stop!” It was a stupid thing to say. No one stops to be shot.
Click was gone. So was the watcher.
Cindy had crawled under the boarded stairs and curled into a tight fetal position. As Scott leaned down to check her breathing, Click's voice echoed throughout the factory.
“You're dead! You hear me, you prick. On the street, in jail—it don't matter. You're fucking dead.”
Scott stood and aimed the automatic at the voice, but the only other sound was the front door slamming. The young shrink moved carefully through the ground floor of the warehouse, checking behind old workstations, listening hard for the soft sounds of movement and breathing. When he was satisfied that he and Cindy were alone, he placed Click's handgun on a nearby workbench and went to help Cindy to her feet.
She cringed.
He knew not to rush her. She needed time. Scott kneeled on the cold concrete floor and talked softly to her. He told her that no one would hurt her; he talked about getting her to a hospital. Mostly he kept his voice soothing, and he waited.
Minutes passed. The soft brush of a shoe on the gritty floor sent a jolt through him. He reached for the handgun, but it was gone. He cussed under his breath.
“Who is she?” The voice was a raspy whisper.
The watcher stood there again. He held Click's gun in his right fist.
The air felt thick. Seconds passed. Scott shook his head. “You don't want to kill me.”
The watcher glanced at the gun, took a few steps, and tossed it onto a metal worktable. All he said was “No.”
“You've been following me.”
No response.
“I need to know who you are.”
Again, the whispered “No.”
Scott moved forward. “I don't want to hurt you, either.”
The cold, expressionless eyes watched every move.
“But you're going to talk to me.” Scott reached out, and the younger man stepped backward. “Okay.” Scott shot forward and executed a perfect takedown, hooking the man's heels with his ankle and driving his shoulder into the guy's midsection. The watcher was taken unaware, but, as soon as Scott had him on the floor, the man simply disappeared out of his grasp.
Scott spun up onto one knee and caught the blur of a foot aimed at his temple. He rolled and came up on both feet. The watcher came in fast, his head tucked low, his fists raised like a boxer's. Scott dodged a quick jab, then stepped inside a right cross that hooked behind his head. Grabbing the man's right elbow and jamming an arm between his thighs, Scott used the momentum of the punch to roll backward into a fireman's carry. Again, the watcher hit the concrete floor. This time, Scott moved up fast to clamp an arm around his waist before he could move away.
Scott pushed up, shooting a hand forward to grab a wrist and break him down. But the stranger twisted left and planted a hard elbow in the center of Scott's forehead. And he was up.
Now Scott got to his feet and staggered as the swirling room coalesced into a steady focus. Their undignified scuffle had taken less than five seconds. Scott gingerly touched his forehead. “Why won't you talk to me? Who are you working for?” He bent forward and gripped his knees to keep from falling. The world swirled again and then settled back into place. “You've been following me and my friends. I need to know why.”
The man dropped his fists to his sides. “No.”
Scott breathed deeply. Nothing to do but ask. “Are you Bobby?” His voice cracked when he spoke the name. “Are you my brother?”
The watcher stared into Scott's eyes, managing to somehow convey confusion and amusement without moving a muscle in that melted face. His eyes drifted around the room once more, and he was gone. Just like that.
As the heavy front door
bumped closed, Scott looked down again at Cindy Travers. The girl met his eyes.
“Can you stand?”
She nodded.
Scott walked to the workstation where the watcher had been standing and retrieved the stainless automatic. He pushed the cold metal under the waistband of his jeans. “I need to secure the doors. Okay? I'll just be a few seconds.”
She nodded again.
The first floor had filled with freezing air. Scott locked the front door, then trotted through the maze of workstations to find the back door propped wide open. He stepped through into the alley.
A breeze ruffled cardboard beer cartons, torn newspapers, and scattered bits of plastic trash bags. The ancient alley was paved with bricks that gleamed with spilled oil and frozen mist. Scott looked up at smudged stars glowing pale in the muddy sky above the alley and between square rooftops. He breathed deeply and thought of running. He wanted to run. He wanted it more than anything he could imagine.
The mix of thoughts and fractured pictures filling his mind coalesced into one sentence: My nightmares have faces.
It was a new thought, and he was surprised that getting a good hard look at Click and the wax-faced watcher had helped. The nightmares had now become real, and that was progress. Demons can eat you alive. Bad guys are just bad guys.
Scott stepped inside out of the alley, locked the door, and walked forward to find Cindy Travers on her feet.
“You need an ambulance.” He paused. “Sorry. I need to check out Budzik's apartment. He called. That's why I showed up here tonight. He may be hurt, too.” He glanced around the ugly warehouse. “He's nothing, but . . . there's a phone up there. So we can call for help. Do you want to wait here?”
She shook her swollen face.
Scott's eyes scanned the ugly factory floor. “You're right.” He tried to sound reassuring. “Don't worry. The man who hurt you is gone. And I can handle Budzik.” Scott glanced back at the old elevator. “Come on.” He put an arm around her waist. “Let's go.”
CHAPTER 26
Sarah Hunter loved the stars. “See, those are the Pleiades. You find 'em by finding the Big Dipper first and then following its handle.”
Kate studied the child's face.
“No.” The little girl giggled. “It would help if you looked at the sky, Kate.”
Kate Billings looked upward. “How is it possible to have more stars here than in Boston? God,” she said with a sigh, “it is beautiful here.”
Sarah looked over at her new nanny. “You know there aren't really more stars here, don't you?” She was teasing—trying hard to do as her father had asked and “build a relationship” with Kate.
A car horn sounded on the other side of the house.
The little girl cried out, “Daddy's home,” and took off running.
Kate followed at a slower pace, then veered toward the kitchen door. She was taking dinner out of the oven as Charles came in holding a cane in one hand and Sarah's hand in the other.
Kate smiled. “How's the foot?”
Charles chuckled. “Broken. What's for dinner? Sarah claims she made it all by herself.”
“She did.” Kate put a round platter on the center island. “Homemade pizza.”
Sarah laughed. “Bisquick and Ragu with mozzarella cheese on top. The recipe was on the box.”
“Sounds wonderful.” Charles ran his hand over Sarah's long brown hair. “Why don't you go get washed up. I'll be right behind you.”
Sarah skipped out of the room, and Charles lowered his voice. “Kate? I've got to run up to Boston for a few days. There's a, uh . . . there's a problem I have to take care of personally. So I was wondering.” He sat on a stool to take the weight off his cast. “I was wondering if you think Sarah would be comfortable staying alone here with you. I know you two are just starting to get to know each other . . .”
Kate showed her teeth. “Absolutely.”
“Really? Because I could make other arrangements.”
“No way. I guess Sarah's the person you really need to ask, but I think we're good to go. She was just out on the beach trying to show me how to find the Pleiades.”
Charles smiled. “Well, okay then. Of course, I'll talk to Sarah. But”—he stepped gingerly down off the stool—“I don't foresee any problems. The place will be all yours for a few days. I just hope you won't get bored during the day when Sarah's in school on the mainland.” He paused. “But I guess you're pretty much alone here even when I'm at the office a mile away.”
“I like it.” Kate showed her teeth again. “Enjoy your trip. I've got things here under control.”
Charles hobbled out to wash up for dinner, and Kate pulled a chef's knife from a maple block on the counter. As she pressed the heavy blade through hot cheese and tomato sauce to cut through the crust, she began to sing quietly to herself.
And, for the first time that evening, a genuine smile crept across Kate Billings's face.
The elevator clanged noisily on the way up to Budzik's apartment. For the first time in Scott's experience, the panel buttons inside the thing worked. Apparently Budzik had engaged a manual override.
When the lift door slid open, the apartment door was ajar. Scott pulled the red STOP knob and reached a protective arm across Cindy's midsection. “Wait here.”
“No.”
He looked into her swollen eyes. “I have a gun. Nobody's getting past me.”
She looked trapped. “No.” It was all she could comfortably say through broken lips.
“Stay behind me.”
Cindy nodded, and he stepped quickly out of the elevator. Scott didn't know how to enter a room with a gun. His reference points were scenes from James Bond movies. He pointed to the side of the door, and Cindy flattened herself against the wall. Scott braced, then kicked the door wide and went in fast.
The room was empty.
Motioning Cindy inside, he said, “Watch the stairs.” He moved around the perimeter of the living room and through the open kitchen to the hallway. “Anything?” His voice a loud whisper.
Cindy Travers mouthed, “No.”
“Come on.”
When Cindy was beside him, Scott explained, “If Budzik's here, he's probably in his lab upstairs. I'm going to check out the bedrooms, make sure they're clear. Then I want you to stay put while I go upstairs.” His eyes roamed her face. “Can you do that?”
A long breath trembled inside Cindy's chest, and she nodded.
“Okay, here we go.” He glanced down the dark hallway. “Which room is Budzik's?”
She pointed at the far door.
Scott motioned at the other door. “And this one?”
“Like a guest room.” It was the most she'd said since he found her downstairs.
He moved to the first door and quietly eased it open. Scott glanced back at Cindy and shook his head. Next he tried the master bedroom.
Scott half expected the door to be locked. It wasn't. The cool metal turned easily in his hand. The door swung open. A human shape lay perfectly still in the bed, swaddled in tangled sheets and blankets.
“Budzik? Budzik? You okay? Is anyone else . . .” Scott's voice choked to nothing. And, without taking another step, he understood instinctively that he was talking to a corpse.
Scott quickly inspected the room, the closets, and the adjoining bathroom before making his way to the bedside. Protruding from the covers, up near the pillows, he saw the pink, fleshy globe of the little man's shaved head. Scott took a deep breath and pulled back the covers. Budzik was on his back. Nude. Milky eyes stared at nothing; blood spread out like cardinal's wings on either side of his shoulders; and a fleshy red gash spread from one earlobe to the other.
Scott's breathing came quick, and he heard Cindy gasp behind him. Fighting the taste of bile at the back of his throat, he spun around and spoke sharply to the girl. “Get out.” She hesitated, and his voice grew harsher. “Go!”
He pushed the girl out ahead of him and closed the door.
In t
he hallway, he flattened against the wall and breathed in clean air. Images blew through his mind's eye like autumn leaves in the wind—coagulating blood and torn tissue, milky eyes and bloodstained sheets. Nausea licked at his throat.
Someone else could still be in the apartment. Scott needed to focus; he needed to call an ambulance for Cindy, to call the cops and then get out ahead of them. Cindy had dropped out of reality again—her eyes focused on a point in midair, her mind gone to an empty place to protect itself from further horror.
Scott led Cindy into the next bedroom and helped her lie down on the bed. She didn't object to being left behind this time. This time, she couldn't.
The loft was quiet. Only the soft hush of central heat blowing through floor vents—a white noise even quieter than nothing. He moved out at a run. Scott had had enough of slow. Through the living room and up the stairs to the lab, he sprinted quietly on the balls of his feet. Always holding the gun in front. Always ready to pull the trigger.
But there was nothing. Nothing at all. No one in the lab. No one waiting on the top floors. He dropped into a chair and picked up Budzik's phone.
The 911 operator didn't like no street address. Scott gave the intersection. He explained about the elevator and told exactly where Cindy Travers could be found. When he was done, Scott walked downstairs to wait with Cindy.
She was sitting up on the edge of the bed when he came in. Glancing up, she tried a small smile. “This is awful.” It sounded like Dis ee awfoo.
Scott sat beside her. “An ambulance is on the way. You'll be okay.”
“Nothing broken, I think.”
He nodded. “Look, when the paramedics get here, I need to get out fast. Don't worry, I'll wait till I know you're okay. But I can't stay around.”
She raised a thumb in the direction of Budzik's bedroom. “Because of that?”
“No. Well, not just that.”
“You'll be in trouble.” Cindy reached out with an unnaturally cold hand and squeezed his wrist. “Go. I'll be fine. They're on the way.”
“No.” Scott lay back. “You've got enough to deal with without trying to explain what happened in the next room.”